A Brief Freedom
by InlovewithBroadway
Summary: One shot. A companion piece to A Song for Sweetness. It is only fanfiction in that it relates to events mentioned in ASFS. It is essentially a slice in the life of Link's parents, circa 1945. Rated M only for language. No other explicit content.


**_Author's Note:_ This is a companion piece to "A Song for Sweetness". I recommend that you read ASFS first, although this piece was written with the goal that it could be read on its own, without previous knowledge of the original story that inspired me to come up with the characters you'll see in this story. To briefly summarize, this piece is only fanfiction in that it relates to events in the past that were mentioned in ASFS. It's essentially just a little slice in the life of Link's parents (my own version of them). It's still set in Baltimore, but in 1945. (So Link's about 1.) So it's not _really _HS fanfiction, but I don't know what else to put it under. However, if you've read ASFS, and Link's parent's story intrigued you at all and you want some more character development as far as they are concerned, this is the story for you.**

**Whichever way, I hope you enjoy it. As always, thanks for reading. **

**PS- I will be getting back to finishing GLGH in the near future. So look out for that as well. ;) **

**A BRIEF FREEDOM **

**_A Short Story_ **

**--**

**_Prologue_**

_The letters are stacked in a pile next to the perfumes and dried-up tubes of lipstick. Chronologically sorted by post-mark, each one is still nestled inside its original envelope, although it is obvious that, despite this attentive organization, both letter and encasing have seen better days. Each correspondence is a little more wrinkled than the last, and a perceptive eye would be able to make out the blurred ink of dried tear drops and tiny rips of paper held too tightly, an astute sign that not only have the letters been read, but loved._

_However, opportunities for a curious perusal of the letters' content are rare, if not impossible. On any normal day, a nosey intruder would have no luck finding the letters at all. Currently hidden in a drawer in Margaret's boudoir along with the old makeup, the letters are under lock and key constantly. This, paired with the fact that the time gap between the post-mark on the most recent correspondent and the present date has become multiple years-wide, has transformed the letters into a sort of taboo. Rarely do they come up in conversation between Margaret and Edward at all, and to mention them at this point only seems to bring unwanted, emotional strife. And so, as with many things concerning the Larkin household, the letters are purposefully ignored, as if doing so will eliminate their existence entirely._

**Part One**

**_Margaret_**

I stand motionless in the kitchen, staring at the list from the other side of the room. I can feel Link squirming in my arms, desperately attempting escape, but I've become an expert at ignoring him. The legal pad sitting on the card table is beckoning me forward; I'm disgusted by how hard it is to look away.

Today marks the seventh consecutive week of lists. I've counted.

It's funny how much the lists personify my husband. It's all so Edward- each one written out on that same yellow pad, each one sporting my husband's meticulous handwriting. The list is marked with today's date, January 20, '47, and Edward's put it in that same clever spot on the right-hand corner of the kitchen table, a spot where there's no way I could possibly miss it from walking downstairs.

As if I have no choice in the matter, I slowly start to gravitate in the direction of the card table. Link seems to notice this change and is once again crying for attention, but I'm barely registering his whimpers. To free up a hand, I transfer him over to my hip and hold him with one arm. Meanwhile, my fingers graze the smooth surface of the legal pad before I pick it up and read it closer.

Below the date are the chores. Beside each, instead of a standard bullet point, a square and hollow box is drawn. The box exemplifies what will hopefully be home to a check mark later on this evening, once each chore is complete. I glance down at the list, wondering what Edward wants from me today.

_Feed Link his first bottle, eat breakfast, iron clothes, (iron in closet, board in pantry, shirts ready to be ironed on bed), dust bookshelves, feed Link his second bottle, eat lunch, wash kitchen floor, (soap and extra rags under sink), cook dinner. Love, E._

If the lists weren't the first thing in months I haven't felt completely indifferent about, the whole idea would be entirely laughable. A chore list intentionally delegated by one's husband would probably come off as humorous to our neighbors, or any other normal housewife. God knows seven weeks ago I would have agreed. There are basic, unavoidable things I know I need to do each day, and upon hearing of Edward's latest scheme, I couldn't help but feel a little insulted.

When I expressed my distaste to Edward, he had tried to reassure me that this new, harebrained idea was the furthest thing from insult. I was a good mother, he had said. He meant it, a g_ood _mother.

_Let's not fool ourselves, _I had said back. He hadn't heard, or perhaps chose not to.

Instead, he plowed ahead by explaining that the lists were a tool, a device really, so I could keep up with it all. So I could be an even _better_ mother. The best mother I could possibly be.

I'm not sure that's entirely feasible, particularly when the lists are a carbon copy of my husband and all the idiosyncrasies that come with him. It's all just another attempt at order, and order is something that Edward absolutely cannot live without. His little nuances, the way he wipes down the table after a meal or how he pulls bits of lint off a sweater in the winter, shows his need for cleanliness. His habitual tendency to set out his clothes the night before work or call when he's about to leave on the train home demonstrates his need for routine.

And even still, it goes further than his habits. Order is the cornerstone of most of Edward's philosophies. There has to be order in Man's world, he argues, to keep us from chaos. Chaos is for monkeys and tigers and whatever other wild beasts in far-off jungles. We are humans, and as humans we must avoid chaos through progress, that's what he'd say. Progress stimulated ideas, creativity, and improvement. It's how Man discovered fire or created the wheel. And the only way to progress, Edward argues, is through order. Order's the first step. Without it, Man cannot hope to remain civilized.

Just so we're clear, I'm not entirely daft. Edward is ridiculously easy to unravel. As soon as he explained his latest idea, rationalized by all of his rigid philosophies on human behavior, it wasn't hard to guess Edward's true and perhaps desperate motivation behind the lists. This latest idea is only one of many. For the better part of a year Edward has invented half a dozen ways to make everything better, or at least appear that way.

For Edward, the letters and the past they represent symbolize chaos, a chaos that must be snubbed out for good. He wants to guarantee that there is no possible way our family will falter, sliding once more down that slippery slope into the darkness we all used to know so well.

I'd like to see him try. In fact, I'd like to see anyone in our situation try to prevent that. When you build a house on unsteady ground, how can you expect it not to collapse?

But I digress. The real twist here, the real thing that's funny, is that even though I'm up on all of Edward's reasons, he's really got me on this latest distraction. He's really roped me in. I know, I k_now _what he's doing, and yet I'm still hooked. Once I started cleaning, once I really started taking it seriously, I couldn't stop. I can't stop. The lists are my latest addiction, my latest distraction. The plain fact of the matter is I need the lists.

Even upon wakening, there's a heavy feeling in my chest, the immense anticipation for a new day's list weighing down on my body. In the mornings as I get Link up and ready, the weight will drop into the pit of my stomach, and suddenly I'm ravenous with curiosity. And there's the part where I come down the stairs, right before I happen on the list. Those stairs…with every step down them, every time my cold, bare feel make contact with that hard wooden floor, no matter what I do, the same sudden panic hits me. For a moment, I'm strangled with the fear that the list won't be there and maybe Edward has forgotten, only to be relinquished moments later when I see it waiting for me.

To avoid chaos, one has to have order.

Edward's sure got me good this time.

---

Hours later, I'm down on my hands and knees cleaning the kitchen floor with toxic chemicals. Link, for once in his short life, is distracted, currently banging on pot and pans in his playpen in the other room. The television's on too. Coyote and roadrunner, I think. The sound of the cartoon's music mixed with Link' banging carries throughout the whole house, and you would think all that noise would get to me, but when I'm cleaning, it doesn't. When I'm cleaning, I couldn't care less.

My hands are raw with ammonia. The last bits of red polish on my fingernails eroded away some time ago and now the dry cracks of my fingers sting, irritated from being doused in cleaning solution.

In the past, this might have deterred me. Now, I barely notice.

Pain is irrelevant anymore.

My arms ache like anchors and they feel like rubber, but I've finally got something to do with them. I can hardly smell anymore because the inside of my nose is burned by cleaning chemicals, and yet now none of the other smells distract me. I can feel sweat drip down my back with how hard I'm scrubbing, trying to get every last bit of grime, but my thoughts are finally subdued.

Call it whatever you want: derangement, giving in, failure.

I call it retribution.

If only my mother could see me now. Little Miss Margaret, the girl who never cleaned a day in her spoiled life. The girl who went looking for love and lost it all to the cold, lonely truth. This girl, she's now on her hands and knees scouring the floor with her teeth gritted in bitter determination, a woman in all her unrefined glory.

Little Miss Margaret come back from the dead.

This is why I can't really stop. It's not an issue of want; it's an issue of need. The checkmarks satisfy me, therefore, I need the check marks. I'll do anything for them. Cleaning grime? I'm there. Soaping up scum? A walk in the park.

The funny thing is, Edward thinks I'm cleaning for him. He thinks I'm cleaning for our family. He thinks I'm _contributing._ Edward believes he's won, he's succeeded, all because he has finally come across something to deter me.

Who's going to tell him a distraction's hardly ever the real cure?

Edward, always treating the symptoms and never the disease.

With all these chemicals, and with my nose being so close to the floor, every few minutes I have to literally come up for fresh air. As another waft of ammonia knocks me back, all my vindictive thoughts stop as I rock on my heels for a moment. My head's fuzzy from all the fumes. I put my hand to my head and wipe a black wisp of hair out of my eye, trying to get my wits about me again.

I listen for my son, and I realize the clanging of pots and pans stopped. I'm not sure if it's been minutes or hours since I last checked on Link.

Looking up at the clock, I realize it's been the latter.

I look around helpless for a second, but I don't get off the floor. Being so engrossed in my work, my mind takes a few full minutes to put the pieces together. It's four o'clock. That means Edward will be home soon. Meanwhile, the kitchen's only half-finished and that means the chore is only half-done. I bite my lip for a moment, knowing I won't be able to get everything finished before Edward walks through the front door, knowing I can't check off this chore, even though I've been at it almost all day.

The kind of sinking feeling that hits me is exactly what I've been trying to avoid.

Almost as if on cue, Link starts screaming from the living room, after hours of being pretty much quiet. Meanwhile, I've stopped cleaning, so his screams, the noise, it starts to get to me once again.

I don't really do anything about Link' crying just yet, stuck as I am to this floor in a sort of panic-induced coma. I feel my mind attempting to work, struggling for the right answers. What can I do before Edward gets home? What can I do quickly? I need some checks, and right now I have none.

My son screams again- this time its blood-curdling- and that seems to finally jolt me enough to get me off of this floor. In an instant, I've got most of the cleaning supplies in my arms, trying to put them away. Dinner needs to be started. Link needs to be fed. Maybe I can dust the bookshelves, too.

I grab a pot from beneath the stove to fill with water while Link continues to scream. I try to block out the noise as best I can, trying to think. Spaghetti, that's fast. That can be ready before Edward gets home. I turn the little white stove up full heat while my eyes search for a cloth or a rag or something I can dust with.

I'm raiding the more neglected of the cabinets when the telephone starts to ring from the hall, interrupting my search. I look up from the kitchen, now caught between four things demanding my attention at once. For a moment, I stand still, trying to compare them, thinking of which one means more. It's hard to think when my son is still crying his goddamn head off.

The phone rings again and I wonder if maybe it's Edward. If it's Edward I'd better answer. If it's Edward, Link and dinner can certainly wait.

Lured by my fears, my legs have made up my mind for me. I'm down the hall in an instant, and I answer the phone before the third ring.

"Hello?" I ask, out of breath.

"Margaret?" the voice on the other end inquires.

"Edward?"

"Yes, Margaret, Edward," my husband affirms.

"What do you want?" I ask, hoping he says nothing.

"Have you started dinner yet? I'm calling to tell you there's about an hour until I get home," Edward says. I should have known this. He knows I should have known this. He isn't checking up on me as much as he's following his usual routine, and I forgot. Meanwhile, Link is still crying.

"Is the baby alright?" he asks, and I know he hears our son in the background.

Now that's two questions he's asked me in quick succession. My brain's so full right now, I start to struggle for the right answers.

"Yes, dinner's started. I hope you like Spaghetti," I say.

"But what about Link? Have you fed him?"

I glance back towards the living room at Link. The pots and pans long since discarded, he's now standing up in his playpen, still screaming for attention. In the background on the television the roadrunner's just outsmarted the coyote again.

"Margaret?" Edward says into the phone, bringing me back to the conversation.

"What?" I say.

"Have you fed Link?" he asks again.

"I was going to feed him, but then you called," I say grimly.

"I always call at this time."

"I know," I lie, holding my hand to my head again, wiping sweat off my face.

"Why haven't you fed him yet? What were you doing all this time beforehand?" he probes. He's starting to get suspicious, and I'm starting to get defensive. The walls are flying up, the tongues are getting sharp. The usual stand-off.

"Cleaning," I answer truthfully.

"Did you do the chores in order?" he asks.

"Yes, Edward, in order. Always in order," I lie again. I'm clutching the phone in anger because I know he's right, but I don't back down. Still defensive, I add, "I'm not completely useless."

You can tell he doesn't like this. He never likes it when I'm self-deprecating. There's only dead air on the phone for a minute, but I don't care if he's mad. I can only think about what I could be doing if I wasn't listening to this. Finishing more chores, getting more checks. Even if they are out of order.

Finally, Edward speaks, and I can tell he's trying his hardest to remain calm.

"You're not telling the truth," he manages to say.

"Yes, I am," I instantly retort.

"Margaret," he says, and I can hear him breathe heavily. "Lying to me doesn't help our family. Do you hear that? Lying doesn't help. And with the chores, you absolutely cannot do them out of order. The chores are a certain way on purpose. Link comes first, Maggie. We're responsible for him. So, if you're lying to me at all-"

"Well, I'm not," I say.

"Margaret-" he starts again. I don't let him get very far. While he's been yakking about responsibility, I've started to notice the steam coming from the French doors in the kitchen. Dinner's about to explode, and Edward's wasting my time.

"No, listen, Edward. I'm not lying. Stop attacking me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a dinner to make."

"Go feed Link."

"I'm going to," I shoot back.

"_Before_ you make dinner, Maggie," Edward says. I close my eyes in frustration, trying to keep it together. I know I'm in the wrong here, but he's being such a bastard.

"I have to go," I say into the phone.

"Feed Link first," he says.

"I _am_," I grumble. It's quiet for a moment, before he speaks again.

"You've got to be better with this, Margaret," he says evenly.

I hold my tongue, and try to remember this is typical husband talk. Edward, making me feel less than human the way he's prodding me along. Edward, always treating the symptoms. Well, the symptoms are treated alright. To the extent I can't remember when I last fed my child. And now the blame's on me.

The joke's on me.

"I have to go," I say again, and then promptly hang up on him. I don't let him say goodbye.

I'm livid. My husband has just cost me five precious minutes. Probably at least one, maybe two checks, and if I don't have the checks, I've got nothing. Nothing to show for myself.

Storming into the kitchen, I go straight to the refrigerator to get Link a bottle. The water's boiling over the edge of the pot on the stove, but I ignore it.

"Let's do what Edward says first," I mock him under my breath.

Grabbing a pre-prepared bottle from the back of the refrigerator, I close the door with my foot. I'm already running over to the playpen in the living room, handing Link his bottle. He looks as mad as I feel. His face is tomato red from all his crying, his little tuft of black hair mussed from hour of being confined to the playpen. Meanwhile, the television in the background is still blaring, and the coyote's just fallen off of the cliff, right into one of his own traps.

"Here," I say, thrusting the bottle into Link' face, too angry to pick him up. "Just stop crying. It's really hard to think when you cry all the time."

Despite my protests, he doesn't stop, even though he somehow manages to grasp the bottle with his pudgy hands. Still whimpering, he starts to suck, but just as I'm about to turn away, I hear an even larger wail.

Spinning around on my heel, I see that not only is he crying louder than ever, he's also thrown his bottle to the opposite side of the playpen.

That's about when I lose control.

I'm tired. I'm sweat-stained. My head hurts from all the ringing and screaming and crying. I turn back on the playpen, turn back on my baby, and start to yell.

"What the hell's wrong now?!" I shout.

Link doesn't answer. He just stares and cries. He's clutching the sides of the playpen like a tornado's about to blow through. He looks like he's about to burst.

"Stop that! Quit crying!" I yell back. Now I'm two inches away from the playpen, two inches from grabbing and shaking him, screaming in my one-year-old's face. "Shut it! I can't think, you little shit! What's wrong with you anyway? It's just milk! It's just…"

I stop mid-sentence, my breath hitching in my throat. I couldn't tell before, the smell of ammonia still in my nose, but now I'm close enough. Still standing over my crying son, that's when I smell it. That moldy, sour smell. It takes me a few minutes of heavy breathing before I'm able to walk over to the other side of the playpen to fetch the bottle. The odor gets stronger.

My shaking hand slowly reaches down to pick up the discarded bottle. I open it slowly, but as soon as I do the smell is ten times as strong. That curdled milk smell. I voice my pain as the full force of the stench hits me.

For an instant, I'm mortified. From the sight and smell of it, the milk's at least a month too old.

I just fed my son month-old milk.

I can't move. I'm standing here, just clutching the smelly bottle. What kind of mother gives her child curdled milk? What kind of mother does that? And yet, I don't pick him up, I don't apologize, I don't comfort him. I can't do any of those things. I'm still breathing hard from my outburst, and we're both tearstained. I'm staring at my son, and my son is staring back at me with a sort of conviction that's probably impossible for a one-year-old.

Nevertheless, in that moment, I know he's blaming me. I'm guilty.

The joke's on me.

Or maybe I just am the joke.

Before I even realize what I'm doing, I'm already back at the refrigerator. I need a fresh bottle of milk. That way Link will forgive me. That way I can still get the check mark. Edward doesn't have to know. He'll never know. As long as I get it done, check it off the list…

I'm desperately clawing at the refrigerator door when I feel it happen. The water's still spilling over the edge on the stove, the smoke alarm's going off in the hall, and my son's screams are only rising in intensity behind me, and in the middle of it all, the bottle I've been holding suddenly slips from my fingers. I feel the bottle drop, and, before I can catch it, it comes crashing down to the kitchen floor at my feet. In an instant, my floor, my beautiful, perfectly-polished floor, is splattered in soppy, month-old milk.

My hands begin to shake.

The check mark's gone. The good feeling's gone. Edward will know. Edward will realize…I need the list. I need the god damned list and the god dammed check mark. I need that good feeling. My retribution. Edward's order. Our peace.

I step forward, only to slip on the milk I just spilt. I try to grab the card table for support, but as if today was destined to end in ruin, I feel one of the fold-out legs bend backward, and instantly the table buckles, too. We both go down in that moment, a steady rain of papers and envelopes littering the milk-covered tile in our stead.

Crash and burn, right into my own mess.

Just like the coyote.

For a minute, everything's still. I don't move at all. Here I am, sitting in all that milky grime, and it's cold and wet and soggy, but I don't move. I don't think.

I cast my eyes downward to simply stare at the ruined floor. All of my hard work, lost. I should feel rage, I should feel terror. I've just lost it all, and yet I'm just…blank.

It's funny how things work. It's funny how we think the things that distract us, help us. It's like we all have this one idea, this one theory of how we can stop the chaos in our lives. Like we have any control. We pick love, family, alcohol, order, constant cleaning. We choose one deranged distraction and we hang on to it like it's the answer to all of life. Like this one thing can cure us.

It's funny that we all think like this.

It's funny…

It's only among the mold-encrusted milk and grime, shaking in the floor, tired and spent and sick of my check marks, that my watery eyes finally focus on it. Until I'm not really looking at anything in particular, until I'm briefly free from my distractions, that's when I notice it.

One of the letters sticking to the floor in a puddle of sop, it stands out from all the rest. A letter from today's mail addressed to me, the handwriting the perfect match to the writing on the letters hidden upstairs.

It's funny how the things that distract us, they end up suffocating and blinding us, too.

The letter's been sitting on the table all day, but I only see it when it's lying in a puddle of spoiled milk.

Everything else still rattles and screams in the background, I'm no longer listening. Instead, I've savagely ripped the envelop apart. My hands are still shaking as I start to read.

---

**Part Two**

**_Edward_**

The dining room is quiet. The radio in the corner remains unused, so the only sound that can be heard is an unintentional clang of a fork or a knife against a plate and the slow tick of grandfather clock in the living room behind us. Even in the bleak cold of January, the house is too hot. My fingers reach to loosen my tie, but in doing so I cannot help but catch a glimpse at Margaret from across the table.

She is tragically beautiful tonight. Her long dark hair hangs free and curly. A strand of pearls she hardly ever wears falls over her collarbones in a way that is perfectly symmetrical. And even though I know she does not eat enough and she is too thin, the way her dress hugs her slender frame is poetry.

With the way she is dressed, you would think we are celebrating something tonight, except that there is nothing to commemorate. That, and if you look past the mascara and eye liner straight into my wife's eyes, she looks dead. Margaret always lacked expression, but tonight she seems completely devoid of life.

I chew a bite of noodles slowly, bringing my eyes back down to my plate.

This isn't the first time she's left me reaching for answers, but she's never quite done anything like this before. It is only a rare occasion indeed that Margaret will dress up like this anymore, and with no particular reason for doing so, I cannot help but remain suspicious. Although her beauty will never cease to entrance me, a cautious voice in my head warns not to look at her too long or too often. That the makeup she wears tonight may very well be a mask.

That may be reaching, but with my wife, you never know. I wouldn't put it past Margaret to use her beauty as a distraction. And something isoff tonight. The night is quiet, and in that, deadly.

At first, after talking on the phone with her this afternoon, I had come home to expect the usual sort of bad. Even though the lists have helped Margaret stay on task, on many occasions I have still come home to find Link and Margaret unfed, dinner burning and the house painfully un-kept. From the sound of her voice on the phone this afternoon, I thought tonight I would find myself in a similar circumstance.

Interestingly enough, if it had been that, at least I would have been able to handle it. I'd know what to do to rectify the situation. At least I'd know what in the hell was wrong.

Instead, when I walked through the door thirty minutes ago, the situation was completely the opposite. On the surface, all was calm. Margaret was dressed for dinner, Link was fed and asleep in his crib upstairs and dinner was cooking. In all honesty, I was shocked to find everything so orderly, so…in place.

But after years with Margaret, life has taught me it's the subtleties, what she's not showing, that's truly important. You'd have to stand in it for a while, but on closer inspection, tonight the house feels disturbed. It's hitched breath and flushed cheeks. It's the potent smell of ammonia, covering up something else I can't quite make out. It's how Margaret's lips are turned downward in the tiniest of frowns, even though they're glittering red with her best lipstick.

Of course, beyond this, I have no substantial proof.

For the fifth time this evening, I wonder if the lists were a mistake. Two months ago, we were at another low point. I had tried everything to get Margaret out of bed, and sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't. But no idea came close to the lists in terms of working for such an extended period of time, and because of that I thought…I thought it was working. She insisted on the lists. She was trying with them. And, even though she hardly ever completed the lists fully or necessarily did them in the right order, it was improvement. I had helped her. Maybe even cured her.

Tonight, I'm starting to think otherwise. There is nothing I can take for granted and this evening, Margaret, with her mascara twirled eyes and beautiful red lips, is scaring the living hell out of me.

I run a hand through my hair and clear my throat, awkwardly deciding to start a conversation. So far she has not said more than two sentences to me all night, and the silence is not helping whatever is actually going on.

"Dinner's good," I state, and force myself to glance back up at her. Margaret finally looks up from her plate, and it's like she's looking at me, but she's not. Not really. It's more that her head is staring in my direction, but I'll take what I can get.

"I overcooked the noodles," she says, even though I realize she hasn't eaten a single bite. Meanwhile, her voice is deadpan. The conversation is already dying. A voice inside my head tells me to keep talking, but to switch the subject.

"Well, it looks like we will get the new Ford contract," I say, twirling noodles over and over again with my fork, not knowing for the life of me why I'm bringing up work. Margaret hates when I talk about work.

"Oh?" I hear her murmur, as she puts a hand to her temple, and closes her eyes briefly. I stammer on.

"Um, yes. Just talked to Crowley on the phone…for the Baltimore division, we've cinched the deal."

For a whole minute, she doesn't say anything. Her eyes are still closed. Finally, she must realize I'm waiting for her to respond, because she opens them.

"Oh…congratulations," she manages.

I swallow hard. The look on her face is killing me, because she looks like nothing. I'm living with a stranger, but I've known this. I know this is not the Margaret from four years ago. And yet...something that feels like regret still lurches inside of me every time she stares at me with the severity of her indifference. Before I realize what I'm doing, my hand reaches out across the table, desperate to physically touch her, as if I am not so sure she's real.

I get only a moment's feel of her cold, icy hand before she instantly retracts it, as if she's been shocked. As her hand recoils, my fingers can only grasp the air where my wife's hand used to be.

Where my wife's love used to be.

If it was ever there to begin with.

"Margaret…" my voice manages.

For a moment there is only silence. She's caressing her hand I barely touched with her other and staring at the spot where my hand still lies, too. Forcing back my pain, we both watch as I retract my hand and use it to take a long, heavy sip of my gin and tonic. I swallow and set the glass down hard.

"I'm thinking about getting rid of the lists," I blurt, more out of retaliation than anything else. At this, she does glance in my direction again, and for the tiniest moment I can tell her brows are furrowed, but beyond that she gives away nothing.

"Ok," she says bluntly.

"Ok?" I ask, trying to keep my voice even.

"Fine," she responds. I'm speechless. I was sure, positive, that this would have received a more animated response.

"Don't you...don't you like the lists?"

"Does that matter if you're taking them away?" Margaret shoots back. She's now playing with her unused knife and fork, folding them and unfolding them in my mother's cloth napkins. "You don't trust me, anyway," she adds under her breath.

"Yes, I do," I respond instantly.

"No, you don't," she answers back, with the same child-like argument.

"I do," I say, growing tired of the back and forth. For a beat, she doesn't say anything. She just clutches the knife, fork and napkin all together. Her knuckles are turning white.

"Well, perhaps you shouldn't," she says so softly my ears hurt with the strain of trying to listen in.

"What do you mean by that?" I ask cautiously.

"I almost poisoned our son today," she says.

At first I don't understand. It's like everything is jumbled and I have to put it all together, her tone is so matter-of-fact. Just like that. Like she had said she took a stroll a park or went grocery shopping.

"Excuse me?" I ask, hoping I'm somehow mistaken.

"I almost poisoned Link." The indifference in her voice is palpable. A brief, horror-stricken panic flashes through my head as I recall the smell of ammonia…but it can't be. Link seemed to be alright when I checked on him, but how do I know for sure? My worry and pain begins to flare into a frustrated anger.

"Jesus, Margaret. What in the hell happened?" My tone is heavy, but I try to keep it low. My foot's wrapped around the chair so I won't stand. Meanwhile, Margaret's oblivious to my temper.

"Old milk. I forgot to get rid of the old bottles," she says flatly. Her brows are furrowed more, her clutch on the silverware is tighter. I pray to God above that this is a sign that she feels some sort of regret and she's admitting this as a sign of penance. I hate to think it could be anything else.

Meanwhile, I'm halfway out of my chair, gripping the side of the table for support as I struggle for the right words. Part of me wants to run up to console Link, to kiss him and tell him he's loved, another part of me wants to choke the hell out of Margaret for being so goddamn careless and the rest of me feels like I deserve a gun to my head for being so fucking cocky. What kind of fool am I for thinking she could finally be on her own? Especially alone with Link?

"Your silence proves you don't trust me," she says out of nowhere as I stare back at her, incredulous.

"The only thing my silence proves is that I'm angry!" I respond. Now I'm standing.

"At me," she murmurs.

"No, Margaret! At the..." my hands move around the air and I'm literally searching for the right words. "At the _fucking_ situation," I finally finish.

"That doesn't make sense, Edward," she says. "I'm the one who did it. I forgot, and whether it was on purpose or not, I was the one to forget. It wasn't anyone else's fault, and I'm admitting to the blame. So there's nothing else you could possibly be mad at."

"I- I don't know..." I stammer. She's twisting my words, screwing with my head.

"So do you stop trusting me now?" she questions.

"No!" I retort, a little too loudly and instantly quiet my voice, trying to keep it all together. "No, that's… not even the point, Margaret," I say evenly. Even though I know she doesn't want me to, I'm walking over to her edge of the table still waving my arms around, trying to make her see reason. "I just- I'm really not sure any of this-" I motion to the room, the kitchen, all of it, "-is helping."

Margaret's let go of the silverware and keeps folding her dress to her small body. She still doesn't stand, but continues to look ahead.

"Margaret," I begin, licking my lips, unsure of how far to go. "You're dressed for a cocktail party and it's a Monday night. The house smells like pure ammonia and I don't know why. You hardly look at me, and when you do...it's like you're completely void of emotions." My breath stops for a moment as my mind goes to that dark, unwanted place.

"It's like before... when he died."

"Don't," she says instantly, her voice at regular volume for the first time all night. Her eyes remain forward, but she's clutching her dress in fists now. "Don't say his name," she finishes.

The old flare of jealousy suddenly engulfs me, and I'm angry again. Of course it's him. Of course she starts to act like a normal human being when it's about him. Fuck the rest of us. Fuck me, our son. Drawing in a bitter breath, I lean over in her ear.

"Oh, so that makes you mad, huh? His name will make you all upset but the fact you almost poisoned our son doesn't?" I snarl. She's whipped her head around to face me, her face is alive with pain, and her eyes are brightened by anger.

Meanwhile, in a far off corner of my mind, some sick little part of me takes solace in how close our faces our to one another.

"How dare you?!" she snaps and then I have to back up an inch because she's standing.

"How dare _I_? Let's see Margaret, maybe because I am _sick_. I'm fucking sick that he's been dead for two years and he's still the only thing that can get a reaction out you. Meanwhile, you almost kill our son-"

"Stop it! Stop talking about it!" she screams, and instantly she's pushing past me, past the table into the kitchen, but I'm close behind her.

"Why not? So we can pretend that he never existed?! So we can pretend that his goddamn memory doesn't haunt every inch of this house?"

"Exactly!" she yells, turning back on me with a vengeance I thought her not capable of. "Because that's what you're best at, Edward!"

"Excuse me?" I counter.

"Pretending! Playing this self-absorbed, fucked-up version of house so all the neighbors won't go asking the wrong questions-"

"-Margaret, you know I don't give a rat's ass about the neighbors-" I try to interject.

"Then why, oh, _darling_ Edward, are you telling me to always calm the hell down?!" At this, she grabs a clean plate sitting on the counter, and I don't even have time to flinch before she throws it to the floor. I instantly take a step back, as shards of china fly everywhere. "Be quiet Maggie! Stop yelling Maggie! The neighbors will hear you Maggie!" she screams. She's on her third plate. The noise seems to penetrate through the whole house, and I can hear Link start to wail from up stairs.

"Margaret…please…" I say, trying to lower my voice, hoping she'll do the same. I'm a fucking idiot for bringing him up, for pushing all those fucking buttons I know not to push.

"Admit it! You don't trust me!" she says, holding her fourth plate high in the air, threatening to cause more destruction.

I don't say anything. I can't. She's pushed me to the edge, cornered me into the truth. I don't know why she wants to know so bad, and I don't know what else she wants me to say.

At my silence, she lets out a sob.

"So that's it, then," she cries. "You don't. Why, then?! Why do you even try? Why do you stick around?"

For the first time all evening, she is really looking at me. And sure, it's disgust, pity, regret. Not love. Never love. But another sick, twisted little part of me, the part of me that still loves her… I like it. Still, after all this time, I'm in love with her fucking attention.

My breathing's heavy, but my anger's gone as quickly as it came. Instead I feel defeated, broken.

"Margaret, listen to me," I plead. "You know why? You know why I stay? Because, most of the time in life, things never go the way you want them. But that doesn't mean you stop trying." I am being so honest, I surprise myself.

For a moment, no one says anything and only Link cries can be heard. Margaret's still holding the plate high above her, breathing heavily. Her face is two dark rivers of mascara, cheeks stained by black tear drops. It's only after a few more solid minutes of this does she lower the plate and wipe her face haphazardly with her hand.

"No. You see, Edward, that's where you're wrong," she says, as she sets the plate back on the counter carefully, like she hasn't just purposefully broken three plates before it. "Because sometimes, sometimes when you really deserve it, Edward, things go exactly the way you want."

"What do you mean by that?" I ask warily.

"Nothing," she mutters. A voice of warning calls out as I realize that something I have said has made that iron wall collapse over her heart again. Her eyes glimmer with something threatening, perhaps lethal. She's scheming; I know it.

"Margaret…what's going on?" I ask cautiously. My words hit the air, but she ignores them, as if they've fallen to the ground and never quite make it over to her.

"What are you going to do to us?" I say, my voice breaking as I do so.

For a moment, she is silent still. It's within that moment I know she's made up her mind about something important.

"Nothing," she lies.

"Don't do this," I beg. "Whatever you're planning, don't to this to us, Margaret." I've stepped out to her, reaching once again for her hand.

"Don't touch me," she interrupts me, her voice is acid as she recoils at my intended reach. "You promised you wouldn't."

"Maggie," I murmur and once more step closer to her. This time, she stumbles backward in her attempt to stay away.

"Get the fuck away from me!" she screams, retreating to the kitchen counter for support. All I can hear is the crunch of her shoes as they step on broken shards of china. As a new, throbbing pain of rejection flows over me, I put my hand down, and I'm still.

"I'm in the middle of the ocean, Edward," she whispers. She still clutches the counter for balance, and has her back turned on me, but she keeps talking. "I'm floating in the fucking ocean and I'm just fine but…it's like…you're still trying to save me. Don't you get it? Don't you realize? You're swimming way too far out, and you're a dead weight."

My heart's breaking, but Maggie's done that more times than I can count. Meanwhile, my wife has turned around and now stares at me head-on. She's blinking away tears.

"You're drowning, Edward," she says, simply.

It's right then I shut my eyes. I can no longer look at her, it hurts so much. She's said things like this before, but tonight makes it sting so much more. I am barely able to stand up to take her criticism, her regret, her hate.

"I'm going to bed," she finally murmurs, and I feel her start to walk toward me.

I don't know what possesses me to do it, but I put my hand out. One last time I reach for her, and for the most fleeting of moments, I touch the warm inside of her wrist, before she brushes past.

This time, I don't even think she feels me there.

---

It was never my intent to sleep.

It took me two hours just to calm Link down and then another two to make sure that every shard of china was picked up off the kitchen floor. It was not until the wee hours of the night did I finally make my way upstairs to my bedroom, and, just as Margaret had said, I found my wife asleep on her side of the bed. I did not lie next to her; I couldn't. The caution that had cropped up in my mind at Margaret's threats had not left me. And so, instead of sleeping, I had found a place in the chair opposite our bed, and for hours, I simply watched my wife. I watched her sleep. I listened to her breathe. I wasn't exactly sure what she was going to do, if anything, but something in me told me not to go to sleep. That I couldn't go to sleep. I had to watch…even if that meant I stay up all night.

I remember each hour flowing into next. I remember sitting stock-still, waiting for her to move. I don't remember closing my eyes. But, at some point, perhaps due to the late hour, or perhaps with the exhaustion of the day setting in, I must have dosed off, because suddenly I'm awake with a startle.

I look around this way and that, half-confused on where I am. Getting out my chair, I reach down, blindly trying to find my glasses. The room is still dark.

It takes me a minute, but my hand finally grasps them from where they've fallen on the floor. As I return them to my face, I try to focus in on what's in front of me. It is only when my vision sharpens, and my eyes adjust to the dark, a bone-deep shiver flies down my spine. I fell asleep. And while I was asleep, Margaret has disappeared.

My wife is gone.

Still drowsy with exhaustion, I quickly stalk over to the bed and move the sheets around, as if Margaret is somehow hiding among them. As if my tiny Margaret could somehow hide between the folds. As I realize there that this is not possible and that she is not eluding me, I stand up straight once more.

It's then that I see it.

That fucking drawer.

With no key to open it, the boudoir drawer has been ripped off its hinges and the drawer's been dumped over in the floor. As my shaking hand goes to pick it up, I see that the letters that have sat inside of it for so long are gone.

"Oh, god Maggie," I murmur, as I stagger backward from the sight in front of me.

She's left. She's left me here alone.

As I can no longer be in the room, my feet force me to keep looking. I'm instantly checking the bathroom, throwing open the closet, tearing through the hallway, bombarding Link' room, all the while calling her name.

But no one responds. I hear nothing. I plow down the stairs and as soon as I hit the first floor, I shiver. It's freezing down here, and right when I turn the corner into the foyer, I realize why.

The door is wide open.

"Margaret!" I yell, and tear out of the entry, down the steps of stoop to look up and down our street both ways. She is nowhere in sight. My breathing comes in heavy, my mind is screaming. She's out there somewhere, out there all alone. Realizing what I must do, I'm immediately back inside the house, the phone in my shaking hand.

"Baltimore Police Department," a voice on the other line says.

I say that my wife is missing. I say she's probably alone. I hear them ask if she left on her own, free will. Remembering the crazed look in her eyes last night, I reply, "no".

---

The blur of buildings fly past me as my car speeds down Eastern Avenue. I have left Link at the neighbors', and although the police said they would be sending a car, I refuse to wait.

Meanwhile, the snow is coming down hard as I try to reach back and remember when I fell asleep. I remember blatantly staring at the clock at 3:30; it's only 5:00 now. That means that there is less than an hour of a time frame when she could have left. And the first train doesn't leave for another thirty minutes.

I could make it. If she's where she was last time, I could make it.

By the time I've reached the train station, my blood is pumping so hard that my whole body seems to throb. A mixture of hurt, worry and pain sloshes in the back of my mind, but I continually keep ignoring it. Until Margaret is in my arms, until I know Margaret is alive and safe, it's all I can do but dismiss it.

My car squeals to a stop outside of the train station and I'm immediately out of the car, running as fast as I can. I blow past the ticket counter, past the waiting benches, closer and closer, until I finally get back outside, on those cold, empty tracks once more.

My heart's in my throat as I turn the corner, though it drops down again when I catch sight of her. Although she's alone, she's stalking back and forth along the platform, muttering to herself. She's got my long overcoat on. It's too big for her body, and even with the sleeves rolled up she looks like a child. Her hair is still matted down from sleep, and she's clutching a small suitcase.

Instantly, I'm reminded of eight months ago, and even though I know what's coming, I have to swallow my fear. Cautiously, I start to make my way towards her.

"Margaret," I say, trying to catch her attention. She's currently pacing in the opposite direction, but then she turns. Upon seeing me, a look of panic floods her face.

"You!" she says with alarm, and starts to take a few steps back. She's about to run, but I'm immediately at her side before she can. I instantly grab hold of one of her wrists to stop her. I have to squeeze hard for her to drop the suit case.

"What are you doing here? How did you find me?!" she shrieks.

"Margaret, please listen to me. You need to stop. You need to calm down," I say. I hear my voice and it sounds like a stranger's, brittle in the cold air.

"No!" she cries. "Let me go! Don't you get it? He's meeting me here. He's meeting me!"

"No, he's not, Maggie," I manage to say. I know she's using all of her force against me, and I want to break down and cry with the knowledge of how frail that is.

"Yes he is! I have proof, Edward!" Margaret continues, spitting her words into the cold snowy air. She's clawing at her pockets, pulling out dozens of crumpled envelopes. "See…the letters…the new letter I found…" With each letter she pulls out, slowly they start to float to the snow covered floor by her feet, some onto the tracks below. Sullenly, I watch each one become swept away in the wind.

"These are all old," I manage to say. "You're…you're confused Margaret."

"Don't you see?" she ignores me, as she holds up a letter from over three years ago. "He's written to me just yesterday! Phillip's been alive all this time. He's _alive_, Edward." Her eyes gleam wide with hope and intrigue.

Her certainty is so fervent, that I almost want to believe her.

I almost just want to fucking believe her.

"No…" I try again, my hand still tight around her wrist. "Maggie...you're wrong."

"He said he was going to meet me here," she continues, now almost giddy once again with anticipation. "He says…he says he's going to _save_ me, Edward."

At this, my anger comes back. Phillip's going to save her. _Phillip's_ here to save her. I know she's confused, I know she's sick, but the part of me that cares, the part of me that has taken care of her for so long, that part of me cannot listen to her any longer.

"Maggie, Phillip is dead," I say, my words baleful. "And you don't need saving."

"But you see…that's where you're wrong. It was a mistake. The- the bodies-"

"Let me guess," I interject, my voice breaking. "His body was accidentally switched with another soldier's. It was a mistake."

"Yes!" Margaret exclaims, but then draws back as the bite of my words dawn on her. "But…how did you-"

"Because, Margaret, I know you're lying. We saw the right goddamn body the first time. Don't you get it? You're not making sense and you-" I have to stop as something wells up inside of me, staring at the snowy platform surrounding us. "You've done this before."

All this time, I've been holding her arms as I talk, but now my hands let her go. She doesn't move an inch. She stands there, staring up at me. Her teeth are chattering with the cold.

"Listen to me," I whisper. "You married me. He left for Germany, for the war, and you married me. He died…and you're still married to me. All you've got is me, Maggie."

The look that dawns her face is too much to bear, because I know, deep down, it is the look of hate.

"But…" Margaret starts, beginning to cry again. "But I don't want you."

"Margaret," my voice manages.

"I don't want you!" she gets louder. "Who would want you?!"

Here she is, breaking my heart again.

"Maggie...please," I beg. She doesn't listen.

"Who would want you?! After what you did? You confronted Phillip, didn't you? You…you made him leave! He's not coming; he's not here, because of you!"

She continues to wail, and, in the background, I hear the police sirens approaching. It will all be over soon, I know this, but I can't take it. As I'm standing here, as my wife continues to look on me with hatred, my face becomes hot and wet with tears.

I'm crying, and it's a little for Margaret, a little for Link, a little for the life we never had. But mainly it's for myself that I weep.

Because I will always adore her.

Because, even as she struggles against me, all I can notice is how beautiful the deep-sea blue of her pleading, frightful eyes are set amongst the ice-white sky.

Because all I know how to do is to love her.

And, for my Maggie, that will never be enough.

---

"To be frank, Mr. Larkin, you could not expect all those mind games to really work on her. I am so glad you have finally agreed to take the only logical step in curing Mrs. Larkin," the psychiatrist beside me says, but all of my attention's on Margaret.

My eyes are peering through the glass window, into the facilitation room I've left only minutes ago. Although I was just a witness to a breathing, very much alive Margaret, through this glass window, on that operating table, I wonder if she's alright. The walls stretch large and white in every direction.

"One can always hope," I murmur.

"I can assure you, Mr. Larkin. Nowadays, electroconvulsive therapy is guaranteed to work. Your wife's latest episode, her hallucinations, all of it will be a thing of the past."

"Hmm," is the only thing I think of to say in response.

Meanwhile, I watch a nurse aide put electrodes on Margaret's forehead. First the right temple, than the left. Margaret barely notices.

I bite my lip in anticipation, and finally take my eyes off the glass for a moment.

"Have you ever considered... has anyone ever studied if what she believes, her hallucinations as you call them, if they are better for her?"

Beside me, the psychiatrist with the balding head raises an eyebrow.

"I mean to say- we focus so much on the real, on the supposed actuality of existence," I try to explain. "And yet, as people, we all find ways to…lessen the blow of reality, don't we? There's always something, something that steadies us. That gets us through the days. And, in her world, what she has is not good enough," I close my eyes for a moment and remember to breathe. "So with these hallucinations, what if- what if this is just Margret's way of coping?"

The balding man before me only clears his throat, placing his pen back in his pocket.

"Mr. Larkin, I need you to think rationally. There are…certain standards of convention, of normalcy of which we, as members of society, are to abide by. If we find that a patient is not or refusing to not meet these standards within their own minds, we can deduce that something is physically wrong with that person. You cannot view her hallucinations as a choice, or a way of life, Mr. Larkin."

"But if she's happy..."

"It's not about happiness," the man interjects. "This is about reality. She has an illness. You've been skirting around the issue for nearly a year, Mr. Larkin. Your wife is sick. It's time to wake her up. To reintroduce order to her mind. Now... ethics aside, would you still like to continue?"

As I look at my little Margaret on the operating table, for the first time in my life I agree with nothing the psychiatrist is saying, and yet, I am disgusted to find myself nodding, nevertheless. What else can I do? What else can I possibly do to help her? I am out of options. I am out of ideas. And I need a cure.

"I'm going in to treat her, now. You can look on if you like, but I warn you, sometimes even with the curare we give to patients, the treatment can be visually disturbing. But I do assure you, as harmful as the treatment looks, she won't feel a thing and it will ultimately do wonders for her."

"Y-Yes..." I say. "Alright, then."

But the psychiatrist's already left my side, and gone back into the facilitation room. As the door slams behind him, something in me instantly wants to open that door up, crash back into the room, and whisk Margaret away from all the invasive instruments and people. But I don't move. I'm frozen the floor.

In the room, they've already administered the curare, and Margaret is limp on the table. I hear a machine hum to life and a chill goes down my spine. My fingers are clutching the side of the window in panic.

It's about reality. It's about order. But if she's miserable, what's the goddamn point?

Suddenly, the noise is ten times louder as a surge of electricity hits the air.

I have to shut my eyes as my wife begins to shake.

**_End._**


End file.
